


Dona Eis Requiem

by thattrainssailed



Series: Words Hung Above, But Never Would Form [9]
Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bottom Alec, Light Bondage, M/M, Religion, Self-Hatred, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-30 05:54:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17823128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thattrainssailed/pseuds/thattrainssailed
Summary: Alec Lightwood is a sinner.He searches for forgiveness. And then he doesn't.





	Dona Eis Requiem

Alec Lightwood is a sinner.

He has been from a young age. It is at first against his will, of course. He always strived to be perfect, to be obedient, to do everything he needed to as a son. Siblings babysat, his room kept clean, his homework always completed on time. Yet despite his efforts, he was always met with disappointment. Frowns from high up on his parents’ faces. He was made precisely aware of his errors, reprimanded for everything he missed while he was focused on other tasks. Alec apologised, swore to do better, resolved to pay more attention. And yet the criticism continued. He pursued sanctity, but could only achieve sin.

For a long time he cried about it. And then he remembered that such weakness is another transgression. He stopped crying. His muscles ached with tension every evening after days of fighting against his own immorality. If he was tired enough, the pain felt like purity.

He dedicated himself to absolution.

He studied hard. He may have only been a young shadowhunter, but he knew that these formative years were integral to his career as a warrior. He listened intently in class. Answered every question he could. He copied out runes over and over into perfection until his small fingers shook with effort and cramps. He spent every evening in the archery range, calloused hands grasping his tiny bow, until the moment his curfew struck (and not a moment longer). If he woke up exhausted every day, body screaming at him to stay in bed, to hide from the world and the sin that clawed at him at every waking moment, it was a trick of the damned. Amnesty is not for the weak. When Jace came into their lives, quiet and grey with trauma, Alec quickly gave up half of his room and all of his sleep. As the grey turned to gold and Jace became the favourite, Alec swallowed down the bitter bile that threatened his stomach. Resentment was a sin. Alec Lightwood was not a sinner.

He prayed he was close to mercy.

It was months later that he realised the true breadth of his guilt.

This time, there was no one to point it out. His parents had not yet recognised it, siblings seemingly oblivious to it. Jace especially. Alec bowed his head in thanks for such secrecy, but as time wore on, he began to wonder if the reticence was an act of grace at all. He burned with shame when he looked at Jace. The flame set his chest alight as his ribs turned to ashes and his organs collapsed into a smouldering heap that left him curled up and sobbing into the night. The heat leaked from his pores, covered him in sweat that left him as outwardly squalid as he was in his core.  When his mother spoke of girls his age, polite young women she met on her endless trips to Idris, Alec burned alive.

She mentioned future marriage once. Alec threw up until the only thing left in his stomach was vice.

The sin was inescapable. He felt absolution slip from his fingers.

And yet he tried.

Because even as a sinner, his duty had not changed. He was nephilim, born to a right of protection and obedience. No matter his transgression, he had a task. And so he threw himself into the Institute - missions and training and paperwork and authority. He resigned himself to every command he was given, never once stopping to complain. He never refused an opportunity to train, to improve, to feel the wonderful bite of a weapon against his blistered palms. Then of course there were the demons, never-ending and ruthless. At first he attempted to break even. One kill for every sin. It didn’t take long for him to realise that his transgressions long outnumbered even the most common Ravenders. His counting stopped although his kills did not. As arrows pierced scales, he tried not to think about the evil he shared with these creatures.

He grew older.

At some point, his status as a sinner had bled into whispers. Rumours watched him as he slunk about the Institute halls. Conversations would halt as he entered the room. His body began to burn again. As long as it was his secret, he could continue his life, do his job, albeit with the knowledge of his eventual descent upon death. But this - the knowledge spreading - would mean ruin in this very life. When he awoke each morning, the first thing he thought of was flame. The blaze never came, though, and Alec found himself once again questioning the mercy of preservation. His transgression was in suspense. He wondered how long it would be before it was turned into a weapon. He waited. He led. He did his best to keep from collecting any other crimes. Part of him wondered if he had at least found control, gained dominance over that evil part of himself.

Then he met Magnus Bane.

The morality of downworlders had never been a question in Alec’s education: they were long accepted to be depraved and shameless. They killed, stole, envied and lusted as easily as they breathed, and never with concern. Absolution was not a path for downworlders. But for all he had been told about such beings, nothing could have prepared him for the warlock.

For all his life, Alec had associated sin with evil. Transgressions stemming from faults in his very core, roots sinking down to his very marrow. They were failures, weaknesses to be despised and shamed. They were _reprehensible_.

They were never meant to be beautiful. But when Alec saw Magnus, he did not burn, but became the flame.

The warlock was sin captured and moulded with a cast of allurement. His smile lit temptation; his voice curled around promises of pleasure; his clothes were impeccable and revealing, proudly clinging to the last traces of restraint the man had. He caught Alec’s eye and the shadowhunter suddenly felt heavy with inhibitions, weights pulling down his limbs until he gasped with effort. For all his obsession with sin, he had never felt this burdened by discipline. It had been crucial, comforting. Now it was agonising.

When he cut himself free of that weight, he could have wept with relief.

It was not sin that was killing him, but the strain for forgiveness.

Now, his understanding of sanctity has changed.

It was of course a mistake to label Magnus wholly as sin. Not that the man is not tempting, sometimes to obscenity, but it is not all he is. Flickering eyes and a wicked tongue provide cover for an almost saintly kindness. Magnus is a man of boundless compassion. Adrift souls land on his doorstep and he opens his door wide for them, takes them in and comforts them until they can anchor themselves. His loyalty is strong and indiscriminate. His love is bold.

Magnus Bane is a saint. That does not, however, mean that he rebukes sin. On the contrary, he revels it. And with a Cheshire smile and a glint of cat eyes, he pulls Alec in with him.

Alec thought he knew sin, but Magnus introduces a new world to him. Where there once was guilt now there is now only pleasure.

When they embark on sin, it is not a misstep, not a fault in action or thought. This sin is deliberate. They press together, hot skin against hot skin. Magnus’ tongue against his is like nothing Alec could have ever imagined. The warlock moves them, rolls them over on silk sheets, until he rests over his partner. His cat eyes gleam with mischief. A plan. Alec leans up to kiss him again, but he barely gets an inch before there is pressure on his wrists and they are draw above his head, pinned over one another against the soft pillow. The magic is soft against his flesh. The feeling of being bound warms him, melts a moan from his mouth that Magnus immediately swallows.

In these moments, the sin becomes a paradox. How can something be unholy when it is comprised of such worship?

Magnus’ tongue and teeth draw a jagged map of adoration down Alec’s chest and stomach. It’s slow, torturously so, and Alec whines quietly in encouragement, but Magnus merely purrs patience against his navel. He always likes to take his time with this. It is a ritual of devotion against Alec’s skin, a private Mass of love and pleasure. When Magnus pauses to press his face against the thatch of hair just above Alec’s underwear, the shadowhunter swears he can feel prayer brush his abdomen. The _Amen_ comes with the slide of clever fingers into the waistband of his boxer-briefs; the brief movement that vanishes them and lets naked air prickle Alec’s skin.

Alec feels nothing but glory in his veins when Magnus sucks him. It doesn’t last long enough; doesn’t allow him the relief of finishing. It is a precursor. Their worshipful wickedness is far from done. Magnus glides back up Alec’s body to kiss him. He offers his fingers to the man’s lips, and Alec willingly takes Communion. Magnus watches him, mouth parted slightly.

But if Alec has become convinced that their movements were righteous, the way Magnus uses his fingers reminds him of their trespass. They are ruthless as they glide into him, slippery with saliva and lubricant. Alec twists against his bonds, hips lifting up off the bed, uncertain of whether they are escaping the pleasure or desperately chasing it. Magnus leans down to suck a hickey onto Alec’s thigh, and at the same moment he curls his fingers, begins to rub against the spot that has Alec gasping and moaning in a rhythm that becomes a blasphemous hymn.

When Magnus enters him, Alec is at once the sinner and the sanctified.

It’s slow and deep. Alec shudders as Magnus’ hands dig into his hips, grip him devotedly as he thrusts into him. The warlock’s head tilts back and praises fall from his lips; a liturgy in honour of Alexander, that most sacred thing. When his neck straightens again, his cat eyes are bright amongst the darkness. A pale yellow radiance surrounds his features. An irreverent aureola. His hips get faster, angle still deep, and Alec cries out in gratitude for sin, in love for this act so blasphemous, so damnable. As he shakes, he prays that he will never beg forgiveness for this pleasure.

Alec Lightwood is a sinner, but this does not mean that he does not worship.

Later, when he is unbound and held, he sinks into the warmth of Magnus’ body. At another time this kind of heat would have been vile, the sign of transgression, the herald of shame and guilt and weeks of self-punishment. But this does not burn him. Instead, he melts. As he fades into sleep, the silence of the room is only impeded by the wind outside the loft. Its whisper kisses Alec’s ears amongst dreams.

_Praise be. Praise be. Praise be._

 

**Author's Note:**

> Me???? Have a Thing for Alec and religion??? How very dare you.
> 
> Catch more barely coherent messes on [tumblr](https://thattrainssailed.tumblr.com/).


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